


249 - Reader with Bad Parents and Bad Psychology

by storiesaboutvan



Category: Catfish and the Bottlemen (Band)
Genre: F/M, Hero Van, Reader-Insert, mental health
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-12
Updated: 2019-01-12
Packaged: 2019-10-08 16:59:19
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,856
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17390180
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/storiesaboutvan/pseuds/storiesaboutvan
Summary: Filling the prompt "Van loves this girl and they are in a relationship but she's constantly pushes him away, and he feels like he's just standing in the background, because she's always depressed and stressed,. So Van, tries everything he can to make things work??" from @leatherjacketvan and "a fic about the readers mother being a rude person and her father being an amazing guy. She looks up to her father and is nothing like her mother. Can the reader and van be together, he's like her dad, a great person, and she has a bad day, or her mother is rude, and she mistreats van then realizes she's being like her mum, van should leave her but doesn't and she does nice stuff to make it up?"





	249 - Reader with Bad Parents and Bad Psychology

**Author's Note:**

> Warnings: Anxiety, anxiety attacks, problematic mother/child relationship.

The buildings were too tall, too unstable. Every time the wind picked up, you saw them sway and threaten to fall on you. Why wasn't anyone else reacting? There were so many people and none of them seemed even remotely interested in the inevitable disaster.

Oh God, the fucking people.

As they walked by, their shoulders bumped against you. They crowded you. Overhearing conversations, each word hurt your ears. When did the city get so fucking populated? It was mid-morning; people were usually in their office cubicles by then. But there they were, tormenting you with their proximity and apathy and sounds and smells and existence. It was all so, so overwhelming.

It began to close in on you. You knew your triggers, crowds and people and feeling trapped, yet you had decided to venture out anyway. Some stupid post on the internet had resonated with you, and you had been guilted into at least trying a little self-love. Something nice. A trip into town to pick up a bath bomb and a new record or whatever. All you got for your efforts was an anxiety attack about to happen.

“Okay, okay,” you whispered to yourself between panicked breaths. What did you need? Maybe water. A distraction would be good. To sit. Yeah. The first thing you needed to do was the find somewhere calm to sit. You knew a park was close by but had stressed yourself into a state void of a sense of direction. Spinning around and around, you looked for a sign. For anything. But then, you collided with another person.

The impact made you yelp in shock. The person held his hands out to steady you, but you were balanced.

"You right, love?" he asked. You couldn't focus on his face, his expression. It was hard to gauge if he thought the collision was your fault or his. With a lack of reply, the person dropped his arms to his side and assumed the answer was a 'no.' A second passed, then, "You ain't breathing right. And you look all… freaked out. You need help or something?"

Even if you were okay, having to talk to a complete stranger like that would have elevated your heart rate. Having to do it while trying your Goddamn best not to have a full blown anxiety attack was near impossible.

The person watched your eyes flick around, never settling on anything. He watched the tears build up, then escape down your face. He had no idea what to do but knew doing nothing wasn't an option.

"Um. Maybe you just need to sit down for a bit, yeah?" No reply. "We'll just go to this here bench. Just over here."

Slowly, he reached out for one of your shaking hands. He expected you to flinch away with a scream or something dramatic. Instead, you let him pull you from the centre of the city square to edge. Under a tree planted in a cement box was a bench; he sat you down.

"I'll, ah, get you some water, maybe. Hold on."

You hadn't listened to him and hadn’t watched him leave. When he was back, crouching in front of you holding out a bottle of water, you focused on him for the first time.

"Thank you," you whispered as you took it.

"Aye! She speaks!" he said in a completely different voice. He stood up and grinned. Apparently your manners were enough of an indicator that you weren't going to die.

He stood watching you drink, then awkwardly shifted his weight from one foot to the other for a bit. Neither of you knew what to do, but he was the one in charge so it felt like his turn to speak again.

"You okay?" he asked.

The social norm for the situation was that you would reply with an affirmative, thank him again for being the good Samaritan, then be on your way. You knew that. You knew he did too, and it was very likely that is what he was expecting; after all, you were breathing at a less terrifying speed and weren't giving off a general vibe of terror. Regardless, you weren't okay.

"No," you replied.

"Oh…" He sat down on the bench and looked at you. You looked back. He held out a hand in a formal and out of place gesture. "Well. I'm Van,"

"Y/N," you said, shaking his hand.

"Y/N. Did you want me to call a friend or something? 'Cause everyone just calls me best mate Larry when I'm a bit sick or 'ave got myself into trouble,"

"Do you do that a lot?" you asked without thinking.

"Do what? Get myself into trouble?" Van said, to which you nodded. He smirked. "Yeah. A bit. You got a best mate I can call for ya?" His smile faded when you shook your head no. "Oh. Alright. Um. What can I do then? Don't wanna leave you stranded or anythin', but I don't… don't know…"

"Can you just sit? Just a couple of minutes more?" It was another string of words that popped out your mouth without much consideration. Since when had a stranger ever made you feel calm? Why was that idea coming from your subconscious?

"Yeah, love. Yeah. I can do that. And here," he replied, pulling his phone from his pocket. From another came headphones, which he attached to the phone then held one bud to you. "You like music? I'll play ya something soothing."

It was the first of many times you listened to There, There by The Wonder Years. It was the first of many times you appreciated the existence of Van, a boy who was glorious enough to help a stranger in need, but not beyond asking them out at the same time. 

Despite how bad it all felt when it happened, each time the story was told to someone when they asked the perfect question of 'So, how'd you guys meet?', it became more jealousy-inducing and rosy romantic. That was Van's influence though; everything the boy touched turned to gold. Everything, that is, except for you.

…

"It's not a big deal, love," Van said from his place at the end of the bed. He was all dressed up in his good suit watching you in the ensuite try to get your hair just right. He could sense you were on the verge of an anxiety attack but had yet to learn what to do to help.

"Yes, it is. We've had this dinner planned for weeks, and suddenly something important comes up at her work? She's fucking lying. She just wants to ruin it for me," you replied. 

Holding your hands out in front of you, you saw how shaky they were. They were never going to be settled enough to work the perfect up-do into your freshly washed hair. 

"Don't think she sits at home thinking up ways to ruin your life," Van said with a shrug.

You gave up on the hair and left the bathroom. Looking at Van you wondered what the point of any of it was. He didn't get it. He never would.

"She does. I don't know what I did to her but she's just… always been like this. She must have been out havin' a smoke or something when the motherly love was handed out at the hospital."

Van had nothing to say because he had no frame of reference for the pain. Both his parents wanted him more than they'd wanted anything else, and the love poured from them in every single interaction. It was a beautiful thing, but fuck, did it hurt to watch sometimes. The always-clean necklace hanging from around his neck was a constant reminder of how your own mother never learnt to love like that.

"Your dad is coming though. He'll get along with my parents easy. It's going to be fine. They can all meet another time," he said, standing and pulling you into a hug. You pushed him away immediately, ducking from the contact and the physical restriction. You didn't need to look at his face to know there was an expression of hurt plastered across it. Even if you tried, you couldn't pinpoint the moment Van's touches stopped being exempt from the rule.

As you left the bedroom, you paused in the doorway for a moment. "Sorry. I didn't mean… I'm sorry I'm like this,"

"You don't gotta say sorry. You haven't done anything. It's just how you get sometimes, I get it."

Of all the things you wished to be true, that really topped the list.

…

You shifted uncomfortably in your seat as you waited for your father to arrive. He was running late and you suspected it was the fault of your mother. Van rambled on about everything and anything to his parents and they listened intently, lovingly. 

Van sat up straight and made a movement. You looked at him and watched him wave happily at someone. Following his line of sight, you were surprised to find both of your parents crossing the restaurant floor. Everybody at the table stood and you felt Van's hand linger on your lower back. It was meant to be a comforting thing, but it stressed you out and you shook free from his touch.

You introduced your mother and father to Van's after you greeted them with a smile and a hello of your own. Your mother took the seat next to you, which positioned your father between her and Bernie. A waiter appeared and offered menus and you were glad that there was a task to complete before any real interaction had to take place.

Van bumped his shoulder against yours. You glanced over at him and he mouthed, 'See?' like it was a good thing your mother was there. You'd spent the afternoon angry she wasn't going to be, but with the coldness emanating from her from next to you, you realised you were wrong. That, her being there, was much, much worse. You gave Van a weak smile and went back to reading every single item on the menu in as much detail as possible.

The waiter returned to take orders after Mary had stated how excited she had been to return to the restaurant and your mother had then stated how basic and unappetising the menu looked. You knew Mary. You knew she was a second away from throwing salt back before your dad stepped in with a calming quip and a change of subject.

You and Van were last to order.

"Hey, mate. Could I grab the steak special, thanks? Not fussed 'bout the sides. And she'll have the mushroom risotto, thanks. Thanks, man," Van said, handing over his menu and yours. The waiter departed.

"He orders for you too? What's next? Have to ask his permission to leave the house?" your mother said. It wasn’t even a particularly clever remark and she hadn't even bothered to whisper it under her breath. You could feel the sticky bad growing inside you.

"She doesn't like talking to strangers much," Van said in a tone that was disbelief. What, you don't know this about your own daughter? "Didn't pick her food or anything. Just ordered it for her. No harm,"

"Of course," she replied to him with a smile that nobody else at the table could have even begun to replicate. It took too much venom.

When the food arrived everyone fell silent and thankful as they ate. Van had been right though; your father, Bernie and Mary got along like a house on fire. When the plates were beginning to look bare, the conversation picked up and it seemed intent on excluding your mother. She didn't appear bothered because she definitely wasn’t. Even with you, mostly silent yourself, sitting next to her, she didn't attempt to ask you how you had been since she had last seen you.

"Would you like to see the dessert menu?" the waiter asked. Van literally bounced once in his seat. Across the table, his father grinned the same McCann smile.

"No, thank you. Can we have the cheque?"

"Ah-" Van started.

"Mum!" you hissed.

"Well! It was lovely to meet you Mary, Bernard. We've got to be off. We'll leave ya with the dessert menu," your father said standing up. Playing along with the improv, Bernie stood and shook your father's hand. Mary stood and moved to hug your parents. Without the exit being noticed by anyone, your mother had slipped from the room. Nobody mentioned it. 

"I'll walk you out," you said, leaving the less-than-impressed and bewildered McCanns to pick sweets.

Out on the street, your mother was nowhere to be seen.

"I'm sorry, love," your father said.

"Why'd she come?"

"You did want her to…"

"Yeah, but… I never ask her for anything. She could have been at least halfway decent! This was important to me!"

"Y/N…"

But what was there to say?

The sky was a muddy mess of stormy clouds and darkening colours. The wind was picking up and at first, you mistook it for your own fast breath.

"They're good people. Van makes more sense now," he continued. You nodded in agreement. There was a moment where you both hesitated, both embarrassed, ashamed, sorry. He pulled you into a hug. "I'll be seeing ya, love,"

"Yeah. Bye, Dad."

He let go and stood there, looking. You knew he could see it. The bad. He could see the sadness and anxiety. It was in the purple under your eyes. It was in the nervous stepping side to side. It was in the quietness and resignation. He nodded once and walked off down the street to where your mother was presumably sitting in the front passenger seat ready for a battle.

It was moments like that you wished you smoked. You wanted a reason to stay out under the streetlight for a moment longer. You needed a chemical helping hand to stop the first waves of the anxiety attack. Instead, all you could do was take a couple of slow breaths, check if you needed to throw up (no, you couldn't do that to the fine ass meal you just had), and walk back inside.

In the restaurant's front lobby was a waiting Van. He was sitting on the velvet lounge between the cloakroom and front door. As you walked in, he stood.

"You alright?" he asked. His hands were in his pockets and he was slouching, doing his best to be small and reduce agitation. He didn't really mean 'you alright?' Van knew that you weren't. Mary and Bernie knew you weren't. Even the waiter knew. Van wasn't sure what he meant, though.

"Ah… yeah…" you replied.

"Hug?"

You nodded and stepped into his open arms. This was it. The smoking moment. You buried your head in Van and let him hold you, let him smile politely at anyone that walked past and protect you from real world interaction for as long as you could stand there. How long could you stand there?

Van kissed the top of your head. His heart swelled twice its size. Contact.

"They have a pretty fancy citrus tart. That's your favourite, yeah?" he whispered. You nodded. "Ready then?"

"Do they hate me?" you mumbled.

"What? Who?"

"Your parents,"

"Y/N. Course not. They love you. She's not… Just. Come on. I'm gonna get the mud cake. You can have some," he answered, unsure and hesitant.

…

A week later you came to a conclusion. It was easier to be upset and anxious about your mother than most other things. At least she was a ‘real’ source of trouble. At least she, in her horribleness, was something Van could comprehend. But when the source of the bad was a little less clear and much more deep-seated, that's when you lost him.

You hadn't answered his calls and you hadn’t opened the door, but yet, there he was at the foot of your bed holding back a disappointed expression.

"Love?" he whispered.

With your eyes kept close, you listened to him kick off his boots and switch the lamp on. He climbed onto the bed and started to brush his fingers through your hair.

Your curiosity got the better of you.

"How'd you get in?"

"You told me where the spare key is,”

"For emergencies,"

"You ain't answered my calls. Was worried. Thought… I don't know. This seems like an emergency? You been out of bed today?"

Slowly, resentfully, you opened your eyes and looked at the clock on your bedside table. It was just before 6 pm. You were meant to be having dinner at that new place, then heading out to see Van's friend's band. He had been looking forward to it for a while.

"I don't know," you replied, your voice squeaky.

"You don't know? You eaten? Do you want me to get you a tea?"

"No."

It must have been the sad image of you bundled up in bed that helped Van not take offence at your bluntness. He nodded and shuffled a little on the bed.

"I'll see if the restaurant does take away. I'll go pick it up or whatever. Have a quiet night in."

He was trying.

"Van. Just… go see your friend. It's okay. I'm fine,"

"Nah. We're alright, love. They're doin' a couple of-"

"Van. Go. I just want to be alone."

The room was quiet. The empty type of quiet. The type of quiet that screamed in your head.

"I was just wor-"

"Please. I'm fine. I just want to sleep," you interrupted, turning away from him. Your cheeks burned red.

"Babe… I… Yeah, okay. But you gotta answer my calls. Or at least just message me that you're okay."

You nodded and waited for him to leave. Slowly, he got off the bed and slowly he put his boots back on. He lingered, probably deciding if he should walk around to where he could see your face. He wanted to kiss you, love you, but he didn't know how. Even if he did, God knows if you'd let him.

From the doorway, he said, "I love you, Y/N. I'll check on ya later. If you change your mind, just call. Okay?"

When no reply was given, Van left. The silence screamed.

…

It had been a normal day. A good day, even. 

When you rolled over in bed, Van was wide awake and looking at you. 

"Hey, beautiful," he said in a croaky voice. You smiled. He was glorious in the morning light. Soft hair. Bright freckles. Skin printed with the textured lines of the sheets.

Van reached out and held the back of your head softly. His fingers brushed through your hair and he pulled you close. You thought he was going to kiss you, but instead, he just rested his forehead against yours. He hesitated for only a second before giving you a little Eskimo kiss. Then there was the awaited kiss.

There was a time in the relationship, early on, when you would never have let him kiss you without brushing your teeth first. It didn't take long before those rules were broken. After many breakdowns in front of him, snot pouring from your nose and fingers dragging harshly along your own skin, morning breath didn't seem like such a big deal. And Van was nothing if not realistic about the human condition. 'I'm only human, love!' was his catchphrase every time he made any sort of mistake or faux pas.

Van wouldn't break the kiss, even when you knew he had to be short on breath. His lung capacity was shot; his smoking habit was as old as the band. When he finally pulled away, he was grinning like an idiot. Like he'd won some sort of prize.

"I love you," you blurted out. The words hadn't been in your head first.

"I love you too," he replied just as quick, then tangled himself up in you again for another kiss.

The second rolled into the third and fourth and fifth and more. Morning sex was always warm and close. It was needy and meant more than the hysterical night time sex Van weirdly prided himself on. You liked him better in the morning, with your head pressed against his chest, rising and falling with his deep breaths in. You liked him pulling you in tighter, his fingers digging into your back. You liked him whispering 'fuck' and 'closer' and kissing you anytime your mouth was close to his.

It had been a good day. You had a late brunch at home and decided to go for a roam. The markets were open and you wanted some of those rainbow flowers and Van wanted to get them for you.

You lost Van about fifteen minutes in. Well, not lost. You had left him to flick through second hand vinyl records. He would have to check every single box, so you wandered down another aisle, stopping to look at anything colourful that caught your eye.

Suddenly, the ear-piercing cry of a child could be heard. You turned around to find a small girl. All of the adults around her did what you were doing; everyone was looking for her mum, her parent, or anyone that could absolve them of having to help. When the cry attracted no family, you crouched on the ground. The girl continued to cry, but she was looking at you.

"Are you lost?" you asked. She nodded and gave you a look that made you feel stupid. Her nod though, despite only confirming the already true, made your heart skip a beat. You could feel your skin going cold and the nasty whispering of panic in the back of your mind. "Okay. We'll find your mummy. Is that who you are here with?" She nodded again, less accusatory.

You stood up and held a hand out for her. She looked around at all the adults annoyed at the shrill sound she continued to make. With no other option, she took your hand. You turned to the stall holder closest to you.

Oh God, unscripted social interaction.

"Is there like… a lost and found? Or like… market manager or something?" you asked him.

"Nah. Nothing like that. Mike owns the place. His market is the big fruit and veg out front. Don't know if he's working today though," he replied.

With a thanks, you began to walk. The girl's crying quietened to sniffles, but she was resistant to walking. Her pace was slow and if you tried to hurry, she'd pull down as hard as she could on your hand. Still, she wouldn't let go and she looked up at you with heartbroken brown eyes when you looked back to check on her.

Mike was not working and the girls manning his business were unable to provide any useful suggestions.

"I guess I'll just… call the cops?" you asked-slash-said. The girls shrugged and went back to their avocados and kale.

You sat the girl on a bench and looked around. The thoughts in your brain were turning to white noise and it was getting hard to breath. You remembered then, how when you were small you'd been lost too. It was in a department store. There had been a giant teddy bear and suddenly your mother was nowhere to be found. A stranger took you to the customer service desk and they called for your mother three times. She never came. They called the police and as a man dressed in blue who scared you walked you through the store, you spotted your mother looking at tea towels.

"Did you not hear them calling for you?" the cop asked her.

She looked down at you and shrugged.

"I guess not."

This little girl was surely missed though. She swung her feet back and forth through the air, silently crying. Her hands were balled around the hem of her green dress.

"Where did you last see mummy?" you asked her, your voice coming out far more shaky than you thought it'd be. Tears pricked at the corners of your own eyes and you felt nauseous.

"She says stay right here and guard the door for Mummy," she replied. Why hadn't you asked her sooner?

"Guard the door?"

"The lock on the toilet was broke."

You scooped her up quickly, carrying her on your hip to the other side of the markets where the row of horrible portable toilets were. You didn't make it all the way. A terrified mother flew in and took the girl from your arms. They cried together and she thanked you and that was that.

In the silence left behind by the girl, the rippling effect of your long lost memory became very real. She didn't care. Didn't register your name over the P.A. system of the store. What kind of mother… You told your dad about it that night, in that way all kids have of telling adults about their day very matter-of-factly. They fought once you had gone to bed.

"Y/N? Love. Here sit," Van's voice said, dragging you from your memories.

He came into focus. You'd been staring ahead, absolutely vacant. He ushered you to sit at a table out the front of a caravan-turned-cafe. It was all he could do at first, until he could figure out what had happened. Until the cause of your panic attack became clear. 

The market was in a huge old shed with only two proper walls. It was an expansive space, yet it felt like it was closing in. You could hear all the people, the constant sound of meaningless chatter. Everyone was yelling, competing to be the loudest voice. Your hands gripped the edge of the seat, trying their best to anchor you. Van was close, right next to you, but he didn't know how else to help. Sit. Breathe. Water. Music. You shook your head no to the latter two.

You wrestled for power over your own body and mind. Van waited patiently for you to win.

On the walk home, you crossed your arms over your chest and walked fast, keeping distance between you and Van. Out the corner of your eyes you could see him chewing his lip, playing with his cartoon of smokes, checking nothing on his phone.

"What?" you asked, monotone.

"What?" he parroted back, confused.

"You want to say something. I can tell."

Van hesitated, watching you. "It's just… I never know what to do. Feel like I'm… Nevermind. S'not about me. Sorry, love. I really am sorry you feel like this all the time."

'Feel like this.' Even puppy-dog-loving, happy-go-lucky Van McCann had essentially diagnosed you with something persistent and abiding. And the slouch in his posture and worried look on his beautiful face told you it was contagious.

You stopped the thought. You caught it in a net that you'd made yourself when you were just a kid. It was a net that trapped the untruths of the world. The ones that could severely fuck you up if you let them through, let them latch onto your brain and transform into some kind of fact. 

When you were little you thought all feelings were exceptionally contagious. All traits were passed on and bestowed. For example, your mother's strange apathy. Your mother's heightened anxiety about other people's expectations. Your mother's malignant discontent and her nefarious streak. But, no. No. These things were not communicable. Your proximity to her did not ensure you would be like that. Therefore, no. No, just because you were sick with a mental illness that had the wailing voice of a banshee, did not mean Van was getting sick too. You were not responsible for his feelings like that. 

You were not a burden to him.

The net you'd made yourself when you were just a kid rightly told you so. 

"You feel like what?" you said. Van looked at you. "You started a sentence. You said 'Feel like I'm…' What were you gonna say?"

He hesitated, then shrugged. "Don't think I was gonna say anything. Just, like, I'm standing in the background, you know what I mean? When it happens. Just wish there was something I could do for ya,"

"If there was… If I knew it, I would tell you," you said. He nodded in belief.

The remainder of the walk home was completed in silence, but you slowly gravitated back to be close to Van's side. He bravely wrapped his arm around your waist and when you didn't recoil at the constriction, he pecked a kiss to your head.

…

"Babe? You busy?" Van asked, standing next to his bed.

You'd messaged him the night before from your own bed. He was at yours within twenty, helping you pack a bag and piggy-backing you to the car. 'Just a couple of days,' is what you'd said to him, to yourself, but one of you deep down knew better and the other hoped for more.

Since your arrival at his, you'd not been out of bed. Van had gone about his night and his morning the same as always. He gave you space, even managing to reduce the snuggling amount. But it was midday and he was worried.

"Do I look busy?" you replied in a tone nastier than you meant. Your sadness changed the benevolent to the malevolent with the slightest alteration of pitch. Van frowned. "That… that came out mean. I didn't… I'm sorry,"

"It's alright," he said, sitting down on the bed. "I just thought maybe we could talk,"

"About what?"

"Uh, you know. Us. You… It's just… We've never really talked about it, you know? I've been kinda waiting for you to do it 'cause I have no idea 'bout this stuff. Don't wanna say the wrong thing and have you chuck a tantrum-"

"What?" you interrupted, your tone exactly as nasty as you meant it.

Van's hands went out defensively, creating a physical barrier between you and him. "No! I didn't mean… I meant, like, well… that… exactly that. I don't have the right words. Don't know what to call it all and don't know if there's stuff I should… point out… or ignore. I love you, Y/N. I think we're real good. We like the same stuff and you ain't always on my case about smoking and you always smell like vanilla… I want us to get through. But…"

"But we can't if I keep being like this?" you asked sincerely.

"No!" he said and shook his head. "We can, I reckon. It'll just be that you'll be miserable and I'll be dead guilty I can't help."

You moved to sit up, your back against the wall. Van's headboard-less bed was more comfortable than your own. It was a safe space that could calm you down in an instant. One time you had had a panic attack watching the news. It was a full non-verbal, foetal position, zombie state attack. Van picked you up off the floor and carried you to his room. Under the covers of the blanket, in the warm dark, you uncurled your painfully contorted body and came alive again. He probably figured, therefore, that this conversation was going to go down better if it took place in your safe space.

"I don't know what to say," you started. "I don't know what's wrong with me… I mean, I've never been to a doctor,"

"Maybe-"

"Yeah. I know. Everyone's always said that. They'll just tell me that it's anxiety, right? Just get stressed easy?"

"Y/N… Seems…" Van took a deep breath in and out. "Seems a lot more serious than just stress and a bit of anxiety. Think it's probably proper anxiety, you know. Like, with a capital letter. Anxiety disorder." As he spoke, he drew out a capital A in with his index finger in the air. He could see the sadness on your face. "But, hey, look, if it's got a name, means we can get you help, you know?"

"Help?" you asked. Did he think there was a cure for all this?

"Yeah. I Googled it, see. Wasn't anything else I could do. Like, I had this friend once. Well. He wasn't my proper mate, you know, but he was nice and everything. It was when I was in school. He used to cover for me when I'd run off and miss class. But he would get real nervous and stutter all the time and the kids were well brutal 'bout it and I wanted to say thank you for helpin' me and stuff, so I went to the library to use the computers to use the internet but the library lady… librarian! The librarian wouldn't let me use the computer 'cause last time I did I looked up somethin' bad or whatever, so I looked up in this anatomy book… or like… body book… human body stuff… I looked up ‘stuttering’ and it said that if the person had something else to focus on the stutter might go away or stop being as bad, you know what I mean? So I went home and made 'im this little clicker thingy, like the end of a pen, you know? I broke a bunch of the bed and breakfast pens with our name on it and put the ends on this bit of plastic and made this lad this clicker thing and I went to school and gave it to him. It's like that, Y/N. I Googled this anxiety and I dead set reckon that's what you've got and now we just gotta figure out your little clicker thingy, you know? Figure out how to help."

You stared at him long after he finished talking. There were many things to process.

The first and arguably most important was the story of baby Van researching and creating a device to help reduce his friend's nervous stutter as a thank you gift. Whenever you thought you loved Van to the fullest capacity, he'd say something or do something that revolutionised the way you loved him. You wished you had known fluffy, messy, rabbit toothed teenage Van. You imagined him to be bubbly, full of big dreams and cheesy pick-up lines and faith in himself. So, not all that different to your own version of Van.

Loving Van for being himself would have to come later. He didn't want your adoration in that moment. He wanted you to see him trying for a solution and to meet him there.

"You've Googled anxiety?"

He nodded and smiled. You responded to the right part of his story.

"We should make a doctor's appointment. Do you have a doctor?"

When did Van turn into a real life functioning adult? You shook your head no. He got out his phone and started scrolling.

"Actually, I could go to the doctor I went to when I was in school," you told him. He looked up with a confused expression. "Like, high school. He's our family's doctor so he knows me and everything,"

"Does your mum go to them?" Van asked almost immediately. You nodded. "Nah. Think it's best for you to have a fresh perspective, yeah?" You said nothing as you watched Van tapped away on his phone. "We'll go to my place. They're real good. My doctor is always busy 'cause he's a special one that works with singers a lot, but the others there are good. You can book online. Larry does it for me all the time-"

"Larry books your doctor appointments?"

Van did not look up at you, but he smirked and did a strange little shoulder shimmy shrug thing. "Not all the time. Don't you be judging me. I'm doing yours now! What are you doing tomorrow afternoon?"

"What?!" you shrieked. "That's so soon!"

The look on Van's face told you that he wouldn't readily be accepting excuses. "Tomorrow, 3 pm. We'll get lunch first then I can either drop you off or come in with you. Whatever you want."

The safe space of Van's bed was suddenly turning scary. As your fingers twisted around the sheets, Van scooted a little closer to you. He watched you, waiting. You wanted to do good for him. Normally your attempts at calming down were about yourself, stopping yourself from feeling gross and out of control, but as you sat there, for the first time you thought about Van. Breathe for him. Relax your muscles for him. Try. Try hard for him 

"Okay," you whispered

"Okay. Maybe that's enough for now, yeah? We'll talk about it more another time," he said kindly. When you nodded, he stood. "Did good, babe." A kiss to the top of your head. Don’t crowd her. Don't smother her. He went to leave.

"Van!"

He turned, hopeful. You quickly moved away from the edge of the bed to make room for him. Patting the mattress, you grinned as Van drove in and bundled you up in his arms.

…

There, There played in the background of the scene in the film. Van didn't make any mention of it. You wondered if he remembered the significance of it. Van was a strange creature in that he was nostalgic about a lot, but the lot tended to be very specific to him. The big things you'd expect a romantic like him to be sentimental about, he hardly even took note of.

"Van? What did you think of me when we first met? Like, when you saw me?" you asked.

Together on the couch, you were watching a film you'd downloaded for him. He was not much of an 'internet man,' as he called it, so asked you to find him a copy of the American indie Benji had recommended.

Your head was in his lap and he was playing mindlessly with your hair. It was a sensation you would kill to keep constant.

"You mean when I saw you 'cross the city havin' a meltdown?" he replied, not being funny nor mean.

"Yeah,"

"Uh… Dunno. Thought 'that dead pretty girl needs help, looks like she's gonna die,' and then I wondered what would happen if a person just dropped dead in the middle of the city like that."

It definitely wasn't the glowing response you were fishing for. At least you got 'dead pretty' out of him though.

"I liked the doctor," you told him, changing subjects. "She was good. I think she understands,"

"Yeah. She reminds me of our old manager. She was all warm like that but on the ball, you know what I mean? Good bossy. That's what you need," Van said.

You laughed through your nose, mostly air. "Yeah. And I've been thinking… You know, about things that will help. Think I should see my mum less… Or just… try to control those moments more,"

"Think that's smart, 'cause, baby, don't take this the wrong way but I really don't like your mum. And I'm like, a mum guy, you know? Mums love me. I love mums. But she's…"

"I know. It's just… Mums are meant to be kind and supportive and all that, you know? And some just aren't and it's so fucking hard to know how to deal with that. How am I meant to deal with the fact the person that's meant to love me the most just… doesn't…"

Van paused the film by hitting the spacebar on the laptop sitting next to him. He took his feet off the table, careful not to get tangled in the HDMI cable. You sat up when he moved. He pulled you into a hug and you rested your head on his shoulder.

"I don't know, love. I can't even imagine it. But… I think you're doing good. You know? I don't… I got no idea what 'doing good' is, but I'm sure you're doing it. And whatever I've gotta do to make up for her, I'll do. I'll love you double. And you've got your dad. And your friends and Larry. I think Bond's fancies you a bit too, so you've got him if you want. And you can borrow my mum."

You laughed into him.

"I love you, Van. So, so, much,"

"I know."

It was not the first time you appreciated the existence of Van, a boy glorious enough to make your first doctor's appointment and take you there with your hand in his, but not beyond cutting your cute bonding moment short to continue watching his new favourite American indie film.

Despite how bad it always felt when your anxiety took hold, each time you grew better at coping. Van did too. It became more routine and less panic-inducing. That was Van's influence though; everything the boy touched turn to gold. Or in your case, at least a shimmering shade of something pretty because gold implies perfection and neither you nor Van were aiming for that. You were both aiming for something more real, something like love, and that, well that was very much obtainable.


End file.
